


let the past strike us and go

by recycledstars



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: (that's it that's all this is about), Breathplay, Established Relationship, F/F, Glove Kink, Porn with Feelings, forgive me Father for I have sinned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-04-20
Packaged: 2018-06-05 22:34:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6726151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/recycledstars/pseuds/recycledstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In every new relationship, you have to work out a few kinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let the past strike us and go

**Author's Note:**

> This is just something old from LJ. I'm migrating a few things over. It started off with a nice, innocent glove kink. You know. Myka wears gloves for H.G. because she misses Victorian England. Then I watched _For The Team_ again and suddenly there was choking so, warning for that. You're not really meant to do it this way outside of fantasy/fiction, so, y'know, "don't try this at home without proper training and advice."

_you are inside me as history  
we exist  
meet me_  
[Underneath (13) by Jorie Graham](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/242172)  
  
  
  
  
It's certainly not perfect. They have more than a few unique issues to sort through courtesy of the warehouse and all the weird and wonderful things it makes possible. And after that, still more regular, everyday concerns.  
  
  
("I don't see why it's so hard to remember to feed the ferret when I'm not here."  
  
"Myka, if you insist on borrowing my clothes, I am going to insist on taking them off you."  
  
"You used the last of the toothpaste, _again_."  
  
"Must you arrange absolutely everything alphabetically?")  
  
  
But on the whole it works.  
  
And things ease back into their special brand of normal.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
She finds the gloves in a vintage store in Kansas. They're old, delicate lace, hand sewn, and in near-perfect condition except for a small tear in one where it meets her elbow. She buys them anyway, for more money than she should because when she's wearing them she hears Helena in her head saying, "I do miss the days when ladies wore gloves."  
  
(A devilish smile and then, "There's just something unbearably erotic about them."  
  
It's unfair how sexy she sounds saying it.)  
  
At the time it's mostly a sentimental gesture though, one she's afraid verges on cloying. By chance they've caught a few period dramas lately and Helena's taken to pointing out historical inaccuracies so nostalgically that Myka feels compelled to do _something_.  
  
She slips them into her pocket and meets Pete in the street who is messily eating something fried. Myka nudges him in the shoulder and gives him a disapproving look.  
  
"You find anything artefacty?" he asks her with a mouthful.  
  
It draws her attention back to the case and she forgets her impulsive purchase. "No. And the owners were less than helpful."  
  
Pete wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and, after she gives him another slightly repulsed look, they get back to work.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
They talk via Farnsworth.  
  
She's fingering the gloves in her pocket and trying not to smile.  
  
It's hard because Helena is giving her a knowing look, the one that always makes her feel completely naked and more than a little wanting. Unconsciously, she raises one hand to her neck and traces the curve while she's thinking of skin on skin.  
  
What they say is all strictly business of course, proper and befitting a warehouse agent; it's just the way they look at each other.  
  
It makes it all the more enthralling really, sharing information on the case, mixing up the thrill they get from the job with less professional pursuits.  
  
She loves the warehouse, loves her work and Myka can't imagine anyone who understands that better than Helena. There are lots of things she can't imagine. In hindsight, she can't imagine ever having wanted anybody else.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
When the artefact is bagged, she has a thought. And that thought is that the gloves are old. Working for the warehouse has made her suspicious of anything old. She almost can't bear to goo them so she hesitates with them hovering over the neutraliser bag and slowly lowers them in. Nothing happens. She bends over the bag to make sure she's got them in far enough, lowers them another fraction of an inch and still, nothing happens.  
  
Relieved and feeling ridiculous she pulls them out and assesses the damage.  
  
(Neutraliser solution is notoriously hard to scrub out. Mercifully, she rinses them out in the hotel room sink before it has time to stick permanently.)  
  
She tries them on one last time before she packs them, thinking of the hard of the r and the long of the o in _erotic_ coming from Helena's mouth.  
  
The lace is textured against her skin, rough and silken at the same time.  
  
Myka runs her fingers up over her bare arms and shivers, pleasantly.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
When it's late and they're finally alone, Helena closes her bedroom door by pushing her up against it. The latch catches and the slam of the door rattles the walls. Myka frowns at her with her hands roaming, unhooking buttons. "You'll wake everybody up."  
  
"I don't particularly care," is her answer, hot against Myka's neck and she's forced to admit that she doesn't particularly care either, not when her hands have finally found skin. She thumbs down Helena's stomach, slides her hands around into the back pocket of her jeans and pulls her closer. At the shock of colliding, bone on bone, Helena hums contentedly and Myka feels it against her mouth, feels the pleasure of it _everywhere_ , like her pulse in her ears.  
  
And then before she realises there's a hand inside her pants, edging into her underwear and Helena's words are warm, groaned against her ear. "I missed you."  
  
(She's been gone for all of three days of course, but they still have the excuse of making up for lost time.)  
  
Myka tries to push her back, tries to do a more thorough job of divesting her of her shirt, but her fingers are deft and insistent so she falls back against the door and feels it thud into the wall as it takes her weight and Helena's, when she pulls her forward by belt loops. Myka shifts, in part to increase the available area at her neck for Helena to suck at and in part to work a leg between Helena's thighs.  
They both gasp at the pressure and subsequent momentum of hips seeking contact. It's greed and lust and several other sins probably, and Myka is loving every one. Her teeth bite into her lip to only half-mute the sound she makes when Helena's thumb works against her.  
  
And _god_ and _yes_ and then she stops forming words.  
  
The rhythm and rock of it against the door is all she can think about, and her mind is fixed on that and what they're doing to create it. It's too much or just enough, she can't decide. It makes it hard to keep quiet. Myka's hands urge at Helena's jaw until she's being kissed to silence.  
  
Her thumb is tracing against Helena's cheek when her body gives into the rush of it. It's an orgasm that hits more than it builds, intense and electric and all over. She's shaking and her knees feel useless. It's quick and it's dirty and she's still wearing most of her clothes but it's exactly what she didn't know she needed.  
  
She sighs into Helena's mouth and moves to huff a half-surprised laugh against her cheek. Body still humming, she slumps against the wall. It shifts her legs between Helena's and prompts a little whine at the loss of contact which has her grinning wickedly.  
  
But then Helena says her name thick with want and her desire to tease is replaced by urgency, the fumble of her hands as she negotiates buttons and zips and walks them across the room.  
  
They stumble over her bag, still packed and resting exactly where she dumped it quickly before dinner.  
  
(She doesn't think of the gloves, doesn't think about anything because Helena tugs off her own shirt and suddenly there's a whole lot of skin for her hands to explore.)  
  
The mattress meets them when they fall. Myka flexes her nails against Helena's stomach, follows with her mouth until she reaches clothing. They both shift to facilitate the removal of her jeans and Myka ends up kneeling on the floor, hands curled at Helena's hips, neck craned to reach her mouth.  
  
It's messy by this point.  
  
She sits back on her knees, breathless and looks up. Helena looks more amused than expectant but they can both smell sex, and she hums, throatily, when Myka breathes against the inside of her knee.  
  
Myka smiles at that.  
  
She trails her mouth wetly along Helena's thigh and wastes no time. She tastes about as close to perfect as Myka can imagine and emotion chases the sensation through every inch of her. She feels _relieved_ , that she is back and they are together, like this.  
  
She breathes out the truth in a tease of air which has Helena tense and on the verge of begging: "I missed you too."  
  
(This is the moment that she realises she's _home_.)  
  
And then she stops teasing. Her mouth sucks noisily and she smiles at the reaction she gets because she's knows it's the sound of it as much as the pressure of her tongue. Helena's hands fist in her hair.  
  
Helena's thighs squeeze against her cheeks and she shudders, back arched as the lilt of her hips drags her clit against the flat of Myka's tongue. The hand in Myka's hair clutches and she feels the climax of it, wet and physical, against her mouth. It coincides with loud appreciation which makes her grin.  
  
She likes being the one to do this, make her loud, so the others can probably hear and there's a dirty thrill in it because she likes that too. (There'll be time for embarrassment later; in the moment she's proud and happy and the world really _should_ know just what she's doing to this woman.)  
  
When they're still and quiet and the hand in her hair is petting it flat, she flicks her tongue lazily, draws another twitch before pulling back, mouth slick with sex.  
  
"I do like it when you go away darling," Helena says, neck flushed and still breathless.  
  
Myka smiles, stands, realises she's still mostly dressed and turns to pull her shirt over head, surveying the result of hurriedly pulling off shoes and clothes. She gives up on the idea of tidiness, drops her shirt to the floor beside the rest of the mess.  
  
From behind her, Helena slides her hands around to rest, warm, against her stomach. She drops her mouth to the naked curve of Myka's shoulder and finishes the thought: "Well, actually, I suppose it would be more correct to say I like it when you come back."  
  
They pause like that for a while.  
  
(She finds that love, the constant fact of it, still surprises her.)  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It's not quite deliberate.  
  
Sure, she's been thinking about it but it's not exactly easy to slip on elbow length evening gloves in the 21st century without attracting comment. And she's still not entirely sure how to phrase the suggestion without it seeming completely trite or, conversely, exceptionally lewd.  
  
(Not that she's a prude, exactly, and not that she's in any way uncomfortable communicating her needs in the sex department - which are more than satisfied on an almost-too-regular basis - just that ... she's not sure how the idea will be received. And she doesn't want to dredge up past hurts, not when they've come so far from them.)  
  
But despite thinking (or over thinking) about it, it still happens by accident.  
  
Helena interrupts her when she's putting them on.  
  
She stammers out the first explanation that comes to mind: "I, ah, bought you a present?" Well, it might be a gift for herself as well, if she's honest. "Well, _us_. In Kansas, last week."  
  
It earns her a raised eyebrow, tempered by a small smile. "And what is it?"  
  
Myka feels her cheeks colour and curses the fact, especially when it has Helena curious. She steps forward and circles, gaze flicking intently over every inch of Myka's body.  
  
"You're blushing," she observes, lightly. She leans up to whisper it in Myka's ear. "Which is always charming on you." Helena runs a hand down Myka's side, links her arms loosely around her. "And usually means you're up to something terribly depraved."  
  
Myka twists in her arms to face her, frowning. " _Terribly_? "  
  
Her hands search the curve of Myka's back. "Hope springs eternal."  
  
They share a moment of halting breath before Helena leans forward and kisses her, soft but open mouthed. Myka's hand trails up along her neck to cradle her cheek, thumb tracing bone at her jaw. "The gloves."  
  
Helena follows her train of thought, blissfully doesn't make her say it any more explicitly. She reaches between them and matter-of-factly begins divesting Myka of her jeans. "But _just_ the gloves." Her hands curl around the hem of Myka's shirt and tug it up to her shoulders. "The rest of this will have to go."  
  
When Helena pulls the shirt free of her head, and Myka can watch her reaction, she smiles and is smiled at in return.  
  
(Somehow they do this, manage sex in one breath and affection in the next and it's Myka's favourite part. It's liberating and she feels safe saying and suggesting things she ordinarily would be self-conscious about.)  
  
They make a slow dance of clothing removal, a sharp contrast to their usual frenzied fumbling, which is more and less passionate in its way. She bumps Helena into the mattress when they're both naked-but-for-underwear but she doesn't follow, just bends at the waist to kiss her once before saying, "Wait here."  
  
The light switch slips a little beneath her fingers, but she manages it and then the room is lit only by her bedside lamp, a warmer light. In her head, she'd imagined candles but there are pros and cons to impromptu; on the one hand, she hasn't had time for elaborate planning but on the other, she hasn't had time for (too many) doubts. And it feels a lot more organic, less performative this way anyway.  
  
"Lie down," she instructs, softly, crossing the carpet and letting the mattress dip beneath her weight. She kneels at the foot of the bed and stares a little, at Helena sprawled against the sheets, expanses of bare skin and sleek hair tempting her fingers. Myka sees her shift under the intensity of the gaze, and prolongs it, watches her grow restless with arousal.  
  
It's one of her favourite games, to see how far she can push before Helena begs. It's a power that makes her hot between her legs and in her stomach and curls up her spine until she's aware of her breathing.  
  
Helena stares back at her, waiting and compliant.  
  
She inhales sharply when Myka runs a finger along the inside of her ankle and Myka smiles at that. She repeats the gesture with two fingers, alternating in patterns. And then she lets both hands run higher up Helena's legs to knees, crawling forward to occupy the space between them.  
  
Gloved fingers run up along the inside of her thighs and retreat slowly. It's light. Myka finishes stroking the inside of her knees, watching the response of flesh, skin tensing beneath her fingers, chest rising and falling in hypnotic rhythm.  
  
She curls her hands to fists and lets her eyes wander over all the places she would most like to touch. Restraint is the aim though, so she keeps her fingers light as they travel up to stroke at Helena's hips, far and away from where she wants them. Myka teases at the top of her underwear which earns her a frustrated whimper.  
  
At that she removes her hands completely, runs them over her own chest, smirks at the press of one of Helena's heels into her back.  
  
"Am I making you impatient?" she says, impish but low, as she shifts to straddle Helena's hips, stopping short of resting her weight. Her hair falls around her face and she bends low to steal a kiss. She pushes it back as she straightens.  
  
"You usually are darling." Helena moves beneath her but Myka palms her hips flat against the bed.  
  
"Don't rush me." There's a dangerous edge to her tone, one that promises discipline for defiance and she lets the heel of her palm press hard against bone. She leans forward, increasing the pressure with her weight. And then she lets her hips sink down over Helena's and rocks, slowly. "Is this what you want?"  
  
Helena groans a response and meets her hips, back arching.  
  
Myka fights a groan of her own at that.  
  
She stops moving and stills Helena with her hand. "Wait."  
  
The response is a wordless nod that has her thighs tensing in anticipation and she fights the growing need she has to abandon the game entirely and have Helena fuck her senseless. She takes a shaky breath to school herself, tries not to gasp at the fact that Helena's fingernails are pressing into her thighs.  
  
She adjusts the gloves, pulls them up from where they've slipped to her elbows, body humming with awareness of Helena observing her, dark eyes and slightly parted lips and all of it looking like the definition of desire.  
  
Myka curls forward, whispers it over Helena's mouth, "Do you want me to touch you again?"  
  
She swallows the _yes_ with a kiss she can no longer deny herself. They both groan into it, and Myka runs her lace-clad thumbs over the hard line of Helena's clavicles.  
  
She pulls back with her teeth in her lip, running her hands down lower over Helena's breasts, working each nipple in turn between her thumb and forefinger before pressing in circles with the flat of her palms.  
  
She stares intently at her hands as she does it, but she can feel Helena watching her mouth. She licks her lips and her hips seek more contact almost of their own accord.  
  
Her nails rake lightly down Helena's front and she stops, palming flat against the heat of her stomach. Myka shifts, echoing the sound of disappointment it draws as she does. She curls her fingers into the sides of Helena's underwear though and her lips twist with lust and joy at it both.  
  
She shifts off the bed briefly to finish the task of clothing removal but returns to crawls up over Helena's body, one arm trailing, fingers light against the inside of her thigh but with obvious intent. Propping her chin on her other hand, Myka takes in the look of surprise and pleasure when she doesn't hesitate, just slips a finger into wet and wanting flesh. She curls it slowly, moves forward to kiss the corner of Helena's mouth as it falls open and her eyes fall closed.  
  
Myka continues with each finger in turn until the lace is damp and then she draws patterns that scrape and slip against the inside of Helena's thigh. Her mouth moves to suck along the juncture of Helena's jaw, all of her movements agonisingly slow.  
  
There's a precedent for this, and Helena knows that an impatient whine will get Myka inside her and breathy moan will increase the urgency of it. So she obliges and Myka mumbles syllables that aren't words into her mouth.  
  
Two of her fingers are slick and fast inside her and Myka is tasting the gasps they're eliciting with a lazing mouth. Her tongue dances lightly, sampling and savouring each noise of encouragement. They tremor through her, make her want more of them, so she pulls back, breathes over Helena's mouth, lets her otherwise unengaged hand wander.  
  
With pressure, the gloves create friction burning beneath her hand and leaving red signatures against Helena's skin. She runs her hand up from a breast, curls it around Helena's shoulder and lets her thumb flick out against Helena's neck. It earns a deep moan and a surge of hips which she is _not_ expecting. It has Helena's thigh trapped between hers and her teeth in her lip at the contact. She arches her back into it.  
  
The pads of her fingers scratch along behind Helena's ear and Myka thumbs over her neck again. She feels the vibration beneath her hand, guttural and needy when it reaches her ears.  
  
Experimentally, she flexes her nails, drags them along the curve of Helena's neck, bends to follow them with light presses of her lips. Helena turns her face into the pillow and when she pulls back, Myka is struck by the image, at the white line of her jaw and the perfect column of her neck and her dark hair, splayed beneath her. She smiles, tucks some of it behind Helena's ear. And drags her hand back down to Helena's neck, fingers digging in lightly.  
  
"Myka."  
  
When she moves her hand Helena catches her wrist with blinding speed, shifts into the touch, looks up at Myka looking down. She guides Myka's fingers, lace catching against her skin, until they're curled at her neck and she's groaning before she does more than rest them against her throat. (The suggestion of it is driving her crazy, has her hips angling for purchase.)  
  
Myka frowns. Helena's palm encourages Myka's into her neck.  
  
“Please,” she says. “I want you to.”  
  
She shakes her head, bends to press her mouth to Helena's bottom lip, sweet and brief. “I couldn’t hurt you.”  
  
“You won’t." It's soft at first, then she smirks: “Not more than I want you to anyway. You’ve known when to stop in the past.”  
  
The very distant past, before friendship, love, trust, betrayal, a near apocalypse or two; still Myka remembers it clearly, feels a bit ashamed of it in retrospect. “This would be different,” she says softly  
  
“I know. Because it wouldn’t be a violent act.” She curls her fingers around Myka’s wrist, smooths it in circles with her thumb. “It would be something you did _for_ me, not to me.”  
  
“For you.” She says it like it’s a revelation, teeth sinking into her lip as she changes the way she thinks of it.  
  
“Because you want to because I want you to.” She doesn’t pout; it isn’t the seductive tone she often uses to persuade. It’s honest, non-manipulative. “And though I would very much like it if you _did_ , you have to be comfortable with the idea too.”  
  
“How will I know when to stop?” is how she relents, flustered at the idea that it’s not entirely unappealing. There’s nothing that turns her on more than being responsible (in control of) Helena’s pleasure.  
  
She’s never been like this with anyone else.  
  
Myka likes to be loved. That’s what she’s used to: she’s never much enjoyed hard or fast or anything out of the ordinary. But Helena likes to be claimed, marked, _fucked_ and Myka loves to do it to her. ( _For_ her.) So it’s different, between them. She bites and sucks and scratches and it takes her to an edge and beyond it, undoes her so completely, that she’s surprised at what it does to her.  
  
(In retrospect it makes sense: she likes control in every other aspect of her life. Then again, in retrospect a lot of things about her sexuality make sense.)  
  
But she still likes to be loved. And Helena’s right, there's no violence in it, no selfishness. In fact it makes her more generous than she ever has been, less shy, more ... open to suggestions. She swallows and can't quite believe it's a sentence that she's uttering.“Don’t people use a, um, safe word in these situations?”  
  
Helena gives her the same devilish smile that started all of it in the first place. (It's a smile that starts a lot of things, actually.) "Words aren't particularly useful if I can't talk darling." Even in their current respective positions, she still manages to look smug. "But if I want you to stop, you'll know."  
  
The hand at Myka's wrist is suddenly vice like the sharpness of the nails digging into her skin is painful.  
  
"Okay."  
  
Another gentle kiss and then she curls the fingers of both hands.  
  
Myka knows how to do this, usually knows what response she'll get to various kinds of touch, but this is different. For one, Helena is moving so much beneath her that precision is a challenge. For another, somehow she still manages to be loud, despite the fingers at her throat and _god_ , Myka loves that about her.  
  
(It's a long list, but that's definitely on it.)  
  
Helena's hands come up over hers, guiding the force of her grip, more and less and so much that she's worried, in some distant part of her mind that isn't making her skin burn with it. Her other hand is frenzied and wet and sliding into trembling flesh and she's desperate to be everywhere, all at once.  
  
She withdraws her fingers and presses them to Helena's clit, trapping sticky lace between their skin and rolling the pads of her fingers. Once, twice and she finds herself moaning at it, at Helena's hands urging her fingers, at the smell and the sound and the sensation of it.  
  
And then the hands at her wrist tug back and she removes the pressure of her hand as Helena arches into her, gasping for air and coughing in pleasure and shaking, thighs tense around Myka's hand, lungs screaming and mouth keening.  
  
Myka loves her so much in that moment. In the rush of sentiment, she mouths the tangle of their fingers and Helena's neck beneath and leaves a wet trail until she's speaking to her ear. "I-"  
  
She wants to say _I love you_ but she chokes on it, settles for extricating her fingers to stroke at Helena's hair.  
  
Arms come up to hug her and Helena says, "I know."  
  
Myka shifts her weight and meets her eyes, which are alight with it, dark and bright and deep.  
  
"Oh Myka." Helena curls herself around the hand still between her legs, head leaning into the forearm above the fist Myka has made against the sheets. It holds her weight, until Helena grips and pulls it out from under her. She finds herself sprawled against Helena's body, held in place by hands at her waist, sliding up to her shoulders. It approximates a fierce hug from an albeit awkward angle.  
  
She's still trembling, breath coming heavily and muscles alternately tight and lax. It's movement Myka is acutely aware of, the way they're pressed together, but she doesn't shift and Helena clings until her breath is shallower and slower.  
  
When she lets up, Myka rolls to rest beside her, fingers trailing up over her hip lightly. She braces her head on her hand and waits.  
  
"Before you ask me, I'm quite all right." Helena opens one eye before the other, gives Myka a sideways glance. "It's you I'd worry about." And then both her eyes are open and she's giving Myka a thorough, thoughtful look, searching her face for something she evidently doesn't find because she smiles.  
  
(Helena has a way of smiling at her in bed that fills her chest in a way that is impossibly heavy and paradoxically light.)  
  
"You seem well enough." She twists, moves her leg rather deliberately between Myka's thighs, raising an eyebrow when she finds the evidence of just how much smearing against her skin. "Did you enjoy that darling?"  
  
"Yes." She answers unabashedly. _Rhetorical question meet obvious answer._  
  
"Interesting." Helena hums, as though she is a scientific curiosity or a particularly challenging puzzle. "And tell me, what-" (she shifts her leg again, so Myka's gasp is punctuation in her smug pause) "- did you enjoy about it?"  
  
"You." Sincerity is actually the best way to distract Helena from goading. She trails a fingernail down Helena's arm as she says, "You know I'd do anything for you."  
  
"Really?" There's a devious bent to the question. Helena turns Myka's hand over in her own, brings it to her lips and slides her tongue flat against the index finger. "Anything?"  
  
Her lips close over it and she sucks it into her mouth as Myka nods. She breathes it out as Helena sucks another finger into her mouth. "Anything."  
  
Her fingers come free with a soft pop.  
  
Helena purrs it in her ear. "Touch yourself for me."  
  
She does and it's quick, so quick because she feels like she's been wanting it forever.  
  
"Oh." She gasps at the scratch of lace against already sensitised flesh. Helena presses harder against her front, so her hand is cramped as it works between them and then her mouth is at Myka's, somehow soft and insistent in waves until she's limp and quiet and breathless.  
  
And Helena's hands are stroking softly at her hair and at the curve of her waist.  
  
She sighs, open mouthed into the shoulder her forehead has fallen against.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
It's not a long time, but it feels like one. She's not really asleep but she loses some awareness, focuses on the warmth where they're touching and the breath in her ear and lets herself drift.  
  
Helena’s lips move against her temple and stir her back to consciousness. “You were thinking of me,” she murmurs with affection and gratitude. And maybe a little mischief: “You were thinking of _this_ when you found those.” She shifts. “Which is deliciously naughty of you, but I rather suspect your motives were quite pure in spite of it.”  
  
"I wanted ... you miss your old time sometimes," Myka says softly, against the press of Helena's thumb at the corner of her mouth. "And I want you to feel as at home here as possible."  
  
Helena smiles up at her and shifts, tucks her head beneath Myka's chin after a line of soft kisses down her throat. When she's nosing into sternum, she rests with a warm rush of air that isn't quite a sigh. "Myka."  
  
"What?"  
  
"You don't have to worry. I've always been displaced in one way or another. I don't suspect I will ever really _fit_ into history. But I feel quite at home with you, more than I ever have. That makes this century as good as any."  
  
"As good as _any_?"  
  
She smirks it out with affected offense.  
  
Helena laughs quietly. She feels it as tiny tremors against and in her chest. "Better than most, I think."  
  
"You have a place here you know." Her hand slips easily into Helena's hair. It's smooth and Myka traces the line of it above her ear with her thumb. "Outside of me. The others... just because we're not related doesn't mean we're not a family. We have to be. Nobody else understands what we do."  
  
"I've always found families ties to be rather arbitrary." Helena rests back and looks up at her. "What does it matter whether it's blood or the warehouse that necessitates that bond?"  
  
"It doesn't."  
  
Myka shifts down beside her so they're lying against the sheets with the pillows above their heads. She nudges forward until their noses brush and kisses her with an open-mouthed smile. It's light and chaste until it's not and then it's languid and deliberate, Helena's tongue turning over her own. When the soft sucking noises give way to breath Myka lets her fingers, still damp and gloved, trail down Helena's arm.  
  
"I just hope you know that you're a part of it," she says.  
  
"Are you afraid I might try to end the world again if I'm not?"  
  
(It's not entirely a joke, though there is a disbelieving levity to it, the kind that's necessary sometimes around the warehouse, with all the unbelievable things it makes possible. And this Helena, the one that has died to save her and come back to life, is light years from the one who held a gun to her head at Yellowstone. Myka is so very sure of that.)  
  
"No." Her answer and her face are serious. "Just that you might be happier, knowing that you were."  
  
"I'm not at all unhappy darling." Helena says, with a playful look. "Especially after _that_ little performance. If that's how you intend to honour my past life, I don't know why I'm spending so long trying to talk you out of it." It shifts to a quieter smile."Except that I do want you to know that I _am_ happy here, with you."  
  
Her hands wander along Myka's side and flex against a ticklish spot, which has become the bane of her existence since it was discovered. She curls forward, tries not to squeal with laughter. Helena's fingers relent soon enough and from their new position, she can bend easily, press a kiss against Myka's ear, smoothing her hair. "You and your wicked imagination."  
  
Myka twists to look up at her. "I'm open to creative input. I know how you despise historical inaccuracies."  
  
She says it gently and as she moves to settle back so they're face-to-face. "Not yours."  
  
It's implied, but she hears it clearly: _I could never despise anything of you_.  
  
"Well there _is_ something I've been meaning to ask you about corsets then."  
  
Helena smiles, equally wanton and wistful. "They were, happily, much easier to get out of than into."  
  
She rolls onto her back and takes in the ceiling.  
  
Myka feels a little bit like she should be jealous, since they are, obliquely, discussing past lovers in bed. And there is a flicker of greed within her, where she can't exactly say because it's visceral. It's also fleeting and it's not envy, just an intense and unbearable longing to have always known this woman, for all of her one hundred years and change. There's no need for jealousy anyway. Some part of her is quite sure that the past pales in comparison to what they have.  
  
(It does for her and they've always been alike.)  
  
She rolls over to pluck the gloves from her hands and set them on the nightstand. "I know you must have a lot of painful memories," she says, softly, shifting back and settling against Helena's shoulder. She laces their fingers together. "But don't let it stop you from remembering the good ones. I did, for so long. And it made me so wary of feeling that kind of pain again that I…" Myka hesitates. "Not that it's the same. I didn't mean-"  
  
Helena interrupts her by squeezing at her hand. "It's quite alright. Sometimes I am rather thoughtless; I forget that I'm not the first or only person to suffer a loss." She smiles a little ruefully. "Though perhaps I did take it to more dramatic lengths than most. I'm afraid that selfishness is not a particularly attractive trait."  
  
Myka closes her eyes, warm and content and feeling an intense gratitude. "You have more than enough attractive traits to make up for it."  
  
"I quite often wish I was more like you." It sounds like a confession she's not entirely sure she should share. "I wish I hadn't let it consume me so wholly. I imagine you must have felt similar guilt and anger and sadness. But you carried on Myka, with all your goodness intact. You are so very, very good."  
  
"So are you."  
  
"I wasn't always."  
  
"No." She pauses, thumb lazing along the back of Helena's hand. "But you are now. And that's what matters."  
  
Helena doesn't quite believe her; Myka can see it on her face when she shifts to observe her response. Her expression softens though, after a pause, and she nods. "You're right. Now is what matters." Amusement dances across her features, catching in her eyes and the quirk of her mouth. "Which is what _I_ was trying to say before, when you wouldn't stop arguing the opposite."  
  
Myka narrows her eyes. "You're being infuriating."  
  
"Well it is _me_ ,darling. I have a talent for it," she declares breezily. "It's part of my charm."  
  
"Sometimes," she concedes, twisting away to hide her smile and reaching for the lamp.  
  
Helena moves with her, curls up at her back and drops a kiss against her shoulder. "Sleep well."  
  
Myka's smile widens as she nudges into the pillow and Helena's hand brushes down her arm to rest against her own. She waits, counting the seconds, knowing exactly when it will come.  
  
(At times, Helena isn't as mysterious as she likes to think she is.)  
  
"Myka," she says. A beat, and then, "Thank you."  
  
"You don't have to thank me."  
  
"I do. You love me much better than I deserve."  
  
"No," she says, as though it's an immutable fact. "I just love you."  
  
"A sentiment I return wholeheartedly," Helena says, softly.  
  
It's a whisper against her neck and then she's asleep.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Helena reaches over and takes her hand in the car. A thumb smooths over the back of her palm and then fingers curl against the inseam of her suit pants.  
  
(There’s an artefact on the backseat – an easy bag – and they’ve decided that driving back to South Dakota that day is preferable to a dingy motel room even if it is a five hour drive and the sun is sinking toward the horizon.)  
  
The only flaw in the plan is that Helena’s never been very good at sitting still. She’ll frown over ten ideas in quick succession and invariably want to implement one immediately or read more about it or commit it to paper. But doing so while driving makes her ill and Myka refuses to let her do it since the last time, which, in combination with Pete whining in the backseat about her choice of radio station, made a trip from Chicago to Grand Rapids particularly miserable.  
  
Myka has all kinds of driving rules, like _no arguing with Pete about the rules of shotgun_ and _no arguing with the GPS about directions_ and _no hands in my lap_ and _no leaning across the console_ because a bored Helena is incorrigible.  
  
(Myka’s beginning to understand the string of past affairs; abusing her charm was something she did to while away time.)  
  
She moves their linked fingers rather pointedly from her lap to Helena’s and answers the smirk it elicits with a disapproving purse of her mouth. Her fingers squeeze though and it prompts Helena to speak.  
  
“Shall I tell you a story?” she asks, raising Myka’s hand to her lips in an afterthought of a gesture. It’s quick and chaste and it fills her with something that threatens to spill out. Her face rearranges into a fond smile.  
  
Helena continues: “To pass the time?”  
  
Her smile grows wider: this is one of her most endearing idiosyncrasies, along with reading out loud and earnest use of the word _beloved_. Myka nods without taking her attention from the road.  
  
“Are you planning on continuing your writing career?” she asks, only half-jokingly.  
  
(Nothing is ever really truly a surprise with this woman. Myka’s fairly sure that if she decided to climb Everest or tackle the problem of cold fusion, it’d happen within a year or two.)  
  
Helena laughs. “I never had the patience for committing ideas to words, and certainly, no flair for it. No, I meant a story that actually happened, a memory really.”  
  
Myka glances over, surprised, but she smiles encouragingly.  
  
“I’d like that,” she says.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
"You of all people should know that love can't change the past." She'd said it the first night after Helena returned, both of them curled into opposite arms of the sofa in the dark. There was a mug of tea in her hand, but it was long cold. This was after the tearful reunions and group hugs, after confessions of love that were more a formality than a surprise and a single, tentative, tea-warmed kiss.  
  
And with that done, the question of the future had firmly come to rest between them.  
  
Outside of them, the house was quiet.  
  
In fact, they were mostly quiet too.  
  
Helena had nodded.  
  
"And I don't think, after all this, that we can pretend it will be easy."  
  
"No." Helena had sipped at her own tea, pausing thoughtfully. "I imagine it will be quite an adjustment."  
  
It was a slightly odd thing to say - so very matter-of-fact, so _Helena_ \- that Myka had turned to her with an amused smile and _that_ was the moment. It was so ordinary in the scheme of things that it surprised her, but there, grinning in the dark at a woman who should have been long dead and had been, she knew. It was a certainty that was small in the face of her fears, but it was constant.  
  
"But I think-" she paused to set down her tea and shift closer "- it's an adjustment I'd like to make."  
  
Helena had turned to find her a breath away, mouth open and taken advantage of the fact. And Myka found herself on her back and very much in the moment.  
  
(One part, at least, was always easy.)  
  
  
Now she knows she was right, love hasn't changed the past. But they sort through the jumble of it and fumble towards a future, pausing here and there to save the world from artefact-related disaster or two.  
  
It's not easy, but on the whole it works.  
  
They adjust quite well.


End file.
